


open your hand and your heart to me

by AmadeusRex



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Minor internalized homophobia maybe, Pining, Slow Burn, spoilers for the whole game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-05-09 23:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmadeusRex/pseuds/AmadeusRex
Summary: In another life, in another time.I would be yours, and you would be mine.Ignis Stupeo Scientia is in love.Promnis pining from Brotherhood era all the way to postgame times.





	1. open your hand and your heart to me

He had always resigned himself to celibacy. He’d had no plans for marriage, for a family.

It wasn’t out of duty—even had Regis been required to swear Ignis to the Crown alone, he wouldn’t have done it.

And yet, here, in his room, knees drawn to his chest, Ignis Scientia is seventeen years old, and he is crying.

Things had been easier when he was younger. When his whole world was school, and his whole world could be school. Now, people always asked.

Always asked about the girl he had waiting for him somewhere, asked about his plans for the future (no, _other_ than staying by Noctis! Any family plans?), asked and asked and asked.

It was a question he would rather not think about.

 

When Ignis was eleven, he fell in love with another boy who was tutored alongside him. Even after Ignis had been chosen to be advisor to the future king, he was still taught along with the five other candidates until they were thirteen; it was their basic education. The other five didn’t necessarily leave him out, per se, but Ignis always had a feeling of being an _other_ , a _him_ apart from the _us_ that made _them_. But, by the gods, was that boy beautiful. Big, dark doe eyes and crooked teeth with braces on them—clever and kind and probably not quite as smart as Ignis, but so charming in his quiet way. They naturally grew apart when Ignis began his training to become Noctis’ advisor in earnest; he went from one lesson a week to five full days of governmental education, and a working day on Saturday. Ignis didn’t mind, but it didn’t sting any less when he saw that boy with a kitchen girl on his arm when they were sixteen.

Ignis had been heartbroken, of course, but he kept going, focused so hard on his studies and his duties that he didn’t notice when he fell behind his former friends in outings, didn’t notice as everyone around him began to have budding relationships, didn’t notice anything.

What he _did_ notice was the sprawling emptiness he felt when he saw couples holding hands, caught tender moments between spouses out of the corner of his eye. He noticed his heart drop and settle uncomfortably low in his chest, felt it thud, beat, so slowly. Too slowly.

He would cry sometimes, alone, in bed, clenching and unclenching his hand, feeling nothing in it but wanting to feel _something_. He didn’t want to admit it, but he would have died for one kiss, one hug, one touch from that boy, that boy with big, doe eyes whom he still adored even now, even when Ignis knew they’d never work out, that the doe-eyed boy liked girls, that he wasn’t even Ignis’ type any longer—and yet, and yet, and _yet_ the feelings never left. They stayed and haunted him.

 

When Ignis met Prompto, he didn’t know what to think.

On the one hand, he didn’t trust this kid who dressed like a punk and preferred playing games to studying when he was over at Noct’s apartment, but on the other, Prompto’s eyes—always wide and full of stars and eager to take in all that they could—were so charming, so endearing, that Ignis couldn’t help but like him. As time went on, he noticed that Prompto didn’t have the face nor the mannerisms of a punk; he looked too kind, eyes too big and sweet, and he was bright and bouncy and full of life, with none of the sharp edges his ripped jeans and tank tops would imply he had.

Ignis quickly developed a soft spot for him.

 

Two years later, at nineteen, Ignis realized he loved Prompto.

Truth be told, Ignis didn’t really know what love was, or how it felt, but he was feeling all the same feelings he had had with the doe-eyed boy all over again with Prompto. His heart would race at eye contact Ignis worked so carefully not to break, hoped to every god he knew that he wouldn’t blush through; he’d catch himself talking about Prompto to his uncle with rather alarming frequency, giving away his focus; and, worst of all, he couldn’t get enough of him.

Ignis usually got out of bed to see to his duties and meet with Noct and Gladio, but he always hoped that Prompto would be over at Noct’s apartment when he visited.

 

On the days Ignis didn’t want to get up, Prompto was his reason for doing so.

 

It was foolish, he admitted. Ignis hated it, hated how someone could have so much power over him and not even know. Even so, he still stole glances of Prompto every now and again, watched that dazzling smile light the room. He was enamored with all the love Prompto had to give, that he gave so freely, without reservations. Ignis was raised to be reserved, quiet, calculating; Prompto seemed to play everything by ear, crossing bridges when he came to them, rather than carefully planning his path the way Ignis walked through life. Prompto danced, light on his feet, from day to day, loving every step he took and every breath he drew.

Ignis hoped that he loved him, too.

He didn’t expect a romance; Ignis was foolish, but he wasn’t a fool. Prompto would never be interested in someone so stuck in his ways, so bound by duty. Ignis only hoped that Prompto would be able to find _something_ interesting in him, something worthwhile, worthy of his love.

Ignis looked at his hands. The calluses from writing, the calluses from training, the calluses from playing the piano—would they fit between Prompto’s fingers? Regardless of whether they did, they were still empty. They would always be empty.

 

At twenty-one, Ignis almost asked Prompto on a date.

It was November, and it was cold. Prompto had been over at Noct’s and mentioned not having anything to do the next day; Noct wasn’t free. Ignis was.

He’d had the words on his tongue, but they died on the way out.

What he had meant to say was, “Would you like to join me for lunch?”

What came out was, “Would you like to take the curry home?”

Damn.

Prompto had said yes, as always—he was ever eager to take home leftovers—and Ignis almost called out for him as he left. Almost.

The next day, Ignis stayed at home. He worked on some files and reports, but his mind was on what Prompto was doing. He almost texted him, but stopped short of sending the message.

_What are you doing? Would you like to get something to eat?_

_No_ , came the reply in his head. He wouldn’t. Prompto wouldn’t. He probably liked girls, anyway. Ignis wasn’t even the right type, not even in the broadest of terms. He told himself to grow up, move past his emotions and focus on his charge, Noct.

Noctis, without whom Ignis would be free to live life for himself.

Noctis, without whom Ignis never would have met Prompto.

Noctis, whom Ignis loved like a brother.

Even so, Ignis would be damned if he said he’d never hated him.

 

At twenty-two, Ignis spent his first night sleeping in the same space as Prompto.

He couldn’t do anything about it; they had one tent and they had only intended to camp for a night or two at most. So sleeping together it was.

Ignis didn’t worry about anything but not facing Prompto at night. His excuse was that he habitually slept on his right side; the truth was that he didn’t trust himself not to stay up all night studying Prompto’s freckles in what little light filtered through the top of the tent. It was hard enough not to stare when they were both awake, but to have Prompto wake up to Ignis gazing at him was a situation Ignis would rather not find himself in.

 

(Or maybe he would, just a little bit.)

 

He always wakes up early to avoid it.

 

At twenty-two and change, Ignis is blind. He did it for his prince, his charge, his brother. And he doesn’t regret it.

What he does regret is not looking at Prompto more.

He’d looked at him, of course he did, but Ignis had always cut eye contact as short as possible, before his face could burn with blush or he could say something stupid. He couldn’t be easy with Prompto the way Noct and Gladio were, and he envied that. He envied that they could still see the way Prompto’s eyes lit up when he saw a good photo spot and he missed the way Prompto smiled lopsidedly when thanking Ignis for dinner and he missed how his face was nothing but pure glee when they visited Wiz and—

Most of all, he missed that quiet, pensive look Prompto had when going through his photos alone, when he thought no one was looking. His features softened, face relaxing from squinting at the sun and furrowing to aim. Sometimes he would hum to himself, little tunes never more than ten or so seconds. And sometimes, he’d give a little smile, just enough to reach his eyes, when he came across a picture he particularly liked. Ignis used to pray it was him. Maybe it was, back then, but now he’d never know, and he’d surely never be the subject of a photo again, not if the scars were as bad as they felt.

 

When Ignis stumbled while walking for the first time after being blinded, Prompto caught him. It was the closest contact they had ever shared, and Ignis felt himself heat up, partly from shame for needing a guide around a _hotel room_ , and partly from the fist around his heart, squeezing tight so blood rushed to his face. Prompto let go and apologized when Ignis grit his teeth in disgust at himself; he wanted to tell the angel beside him to go back to heaven, to leave him and find someone worthier. But Ignis also wanted to stay by Prompto’s side until the end of his days. He never wanted to let go—ironic, considering he’d never embraced him to begin with—but he couldn’t bring himself to hold Prompto fully in his heart, no matter how much he wanted to. He wanted to love Prompto fully and without inhibition, to hold him close and kiss him and quell his fears. Ignis knew Prompto felt inferior to the group, and had done his best to assuage his anxieties as long as he had known him.

Perhaps now, Ignis’ face could reassure Prompto that he was not the weakest link.

 

After Prompto was lost to them on the train to Gralea, Ignis spent many nights awake. He lay on barren mattresses in saferooms, listening to Gladio breathe to his right—closer to the door, in order to better protect him ( _them_ , Gladio had said, but Ignis knew the truth).

His mind would wander, and Ignis felt his hand close around another that wasn't there, felt the aching emptiness of the air and the space in his palm. Something was missing.

Prompto was missing. From his friends, from his life.

From his love.

Ignis often found himself wishing he had died in Altissia, swept away by Leviathan’s wrath. Surely it would have been preferable for his friends to have buried a body than have him bumbling about. He was certain that Gladio and Noct would miss him, at least in some capacity, but Prompto he couldn’t be sure about.

Ignis hoped he would miss him. He hoped Prompto would miss him in the same way he was missing Prompto at this very moment.

He fell asleep with a clenched fist.

 

Ten years later, Ignis cries. He cries for all that has been won, and all that has been lost. He cries because he knows that dawn has finally broken after a decade of darkness, and cries because he can’t see its beauty. Tears fall as the royal chains that bound him are broken and release him into a freedom he can’t quite grasp. Prompto is with him through it all, every sob, every shake, every heave of his shoulders being enveloped by a warm embrace.

Ignis is so wrapped up in his sorrow that he doesn’t notice his tears being wiped away by thumbs worn from age and constant battle. He doesn’t notice when Prompto calls his name, almost from afar, and gives his shoulders a little shake. He notices only when Prompto says,

“Let’s go home.”

So they go home, they leave Noctis for the final time, and Prompto has to support Ignis on his shoulders. His body is still wracked with sobs, so they take it slow, one sure step at a time, Gladio already having gone on ahead. When they get to the car, Prompto doesn’t sit shotgun like usual; he sits in the back with Ignis’ head laying in his lap.

Ignis falls asleep, and dreams.

He dreams of the sun, something he hasn’t seen in over ten years. He dreams of Noctis, young and beautiful and smiling, at the altar with Lunafreya. He’s still crying when he wakes up, silent tears streaming down his face. He can feel Prompto’s gaze on him, watching, making sure he’s okay. As okay as possible, at least.

Ignis clenches his hand again, around nothing, nothing, _nothing_. Prompto reaches for it, pries his fingers apart, replaces the nothing with his hand. Ignis knows Prompto means for him to squeeze his hand instead of whitening his knuckles around nothing, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Ignis freezes, just barely gripping Prompto’s hand when he decides he should acknowledge him. He starts crying all over again, but it’s not the same sobs brought on by Noct.

It’s because of Prompto.

And as Ignis cries, his heart aches pitifully in his chest, mourning what could never have been. Pathetic.

 

He wakes up when Gladio pulls into Hammerhead. Prompto gives him a shake, tells him to get up, they’re home. Ignis wakes slowly, feeling the salt left on his cheek from the tears.

“My apologies,” Ignis begins, but he’s cut off by Prompto.

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just… get some rest.”

And rest they did. They slept for days, never quite rising or setting with the sun after so long without it. But it’s there, and Ignis can see it.

Ignis can see the dawn.

He can tell night from day, morning from evening. And he’s grateful. The world is reviving, and with it, Ignis’ heart.

 

After twenty years of pining, he gives in.

 

Before Prompto can leave for work in the morning, Ignis stops him at the door and takes his hands.

“Prompto,” he barely breathes out. “I have… I’ve loved you since the day we met.” Ignis feels his chest tighten, his hands beginning to clench into fists. He pulls away, only for Prompto to pull him back. He does not speak. Ignis feels the thickness of the air between them, feels Prompto’s expectant eyes on him, asking him to go on.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, before Prompto hugs him so suddenly the air is pushed out of Ignis’ lungs.

They stay that way for a minute, before Prompto squeezes tighter and says, in a tiny, hushed voice, “Me too.”

And in that moment nothing mattered but the warmth of Prompto, held in Ignis’ open hands.


	2. clenched hands and a bitten tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _he was never mine to lose,_  
>  _why regret what could not be?_  
>  _these are words he’ll never say, not to me,_  
>  _not to me._  
>  \- Éponine, Les Misérables.
> 
> A short passage that I couldn't comfortably place in the fic proper. Set somewhere in the middle, during the roadtrip.

Prompto flirted. A lot. With girls.

Girls.

Not boys, never boys. Always women.

To say Ignis was crestfallen would be an understatement. He knew this was coming, he’d seen it from the day he first laid eyes on Prompto, but it stung all the same, every word biting, tearing like a dagger into Ignis’ heart. Not to be dramatic, but Ignis felt his eyes prick with tears, felt his throat close up whenever Prompto approached a woman with that easy charm of his, Ignis knowing full well that such words would never be said to him, not by Prompto, not by anyone.

But, by the gods, the things Ignis wouldn’t have done to share just one look with his boy who’d captured his heart, shot him right through with an ancient god’s arrow, and rendered Ignis utterly helpless.

Every stammer, every word Prompto tripped over when talking to Cindy, talking to any woman, hurt so terribly. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. It could never have been in the first place. Prompto would never be his, though Ignis would forever be Prompto’s.


End file.
